Which is bullshit. I’ve sold her pearls from men before and lied about it, and she never remarked on some kind of missing mystical grief. But she knows her stones—and she’s got the clientele to buy them. As long as I’ve been doing this, she’s had a near-monopoly on the market.
She sizes up my latest now, loupe stuck in her eye, fingers stroking the surface. At last she nods with satisfaction. “A stunning one. I’ll give you 300 for it.”
“400,” I say. She’ll get 500 for it easy, perhaps more if she puts it in a fancy setting, or if she already has a buyer lined up. And she usually has a buyer lined up.
She makes a face at me but I fold my arms. I need the 400, and I’m her best source now. The others are all teams, one to choose the person, one to do the surgery, but there’s something abou
